


Forced Perspective

by methaemoglobinemia (crimsonherbarium)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Artist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, POV Simon (Detroit: Become Human), Pacifist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Painting, Post-Canon, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Translation Available, interfacing, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 23:11:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16376825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonherbarium/pseuds/methaemoglobinemia
Summary: One sunny afternoon, Markus tries to teach Simon how to paint.





	Forced Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Hiso](https://hisokaayase.tumblr.com/) for the beta!
> 
> NEW: translation to Russian available on [Ficbook](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7584737)! Thanks to littlellamablog for all the hard work :)

Simon had never thought much about art before he met Markus.

Understanding the nuances of color theory and shading hadn’t been important to his assigned function. Simon was a caregiver—his model had been designed to help with household tasks, like cooking, doing laundry, or helping the children with homework. Raw creativity wasn’t something that came easily to androids. Their brains just weren’t wired that way.

Markus was different.

Markus had been designed as a caregiver, too, but as a custom model, he'd been given more flexibility. He'd been built to be the perfect companion for Carl Manfred. He could cook, clean, play instruments, dance, administer medicine, and—as it turned out—paint like a master.

His father's influence was obvious in his style. Markus's brush strokes were abstract, laying down seemingly random swaths of color on the canvas that eventually resolved into a cohesive image. Simon was fascinated. He couldn't fathom the complexity of the algorithms that allowed Markus to paint this way. To not only imagine something new, but to then interpret it in such an irregular and _human_ way was remarkable. 

Simon loved watching Markus paint. He sat propped in the corner of the studio, somewhere out of the way, observing the lines of Markus’s face as he touched his brush to the canvas. The way his brow wrinkled slightly as he mixed paints, every color selected meticulously and then applied with abandon. It was truly magnificent.

His attentions did not go unnoticed. One lazy Sunday in the studio, Markus set his palette aside suddenly, turning to look at Simon with a mischievous grin. “Simon, do _you_ want to try painting something?”

Simon furrowed his brow. “Markus...I don't think I can.” He glanced down at his shoes, embarrassed. “I wasn't built that way.”

“Hey,” Markus said, coming closer and taking Simon's hand. “I wasn't, either. Carl taught me how—I bet I can teach you, too. If you want me to, that is.”

Simon thought about it for a moment. “I'll try,” he said uncertainly, a lack of confidence evident in his tone.

Markus grinned in excitement. “It's going to be great, you'll see.” He carefully took his work in progress off the easel, leaning it against the wall where it could dry safely. He set a new canvas in its place, the clean white of the woven material stark in contrast with the dust and grime of the ruined room.

“Here.” Markus was gentle as he placed his hands on Simon's shoulders and maneuvered him so that he was standing in front of the canvas. He held out the palette for Simon, who took it with awkward hands. It felt strange; he wasn't sure how to hold it properly. He glanced at Markus with a raised eyebrow, searching for approval.

Markus nodded. “That's right. Here, take a brush—” he held out an assortment of brushes, ranging from a fist-sized fluffy one that could have been used to paint a wall to a thin, tiny one that reminded Simon of the fringe of Markus's eyelashes. Simon selected one somewhere in the middle; medium-sized, with a point. It seemed like the most ordinary of the bunch. He had no idea what to do with the others.

“Okay,” Markus said, taking a step back from Simon. “Now, close your eyes.”

Simon looked at him incredulously. “How am I supposed to paint if I can't see what I'm doing?”

“Just trust me.” Markus grinned.

Sighing, Simon closed his eyes. He was acutely aware of how clumsy the brush felt in his hands. He wasn't unskilled—he could cook meals on par with the finest of restaurants, style hair with intricate braids, repair a broken washing machine. Those skills were wasted here, though. His model had never been intended for this sort of work. It felt wrong. His programming had no instructions for him here. He had to improvise everything, and improvisation made him nervous.

“Take a deep breath, Simon.” Markus murmured, his lips much closer to Simon's ear than he'd been expecting. Simon complied, hoping that Markus hadn't seen the way his face flushed hot at the proximity.

“Good. Now, I want you to imagine something. Something you've never seen before.”

“Markus, I don't—”

“Just try. For me, okay?” Markus cut him off, his hand moving to give Simon’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Simon sighed again. “Okay.” He tried to force his mind to go blank, waiting for something to happen aside from the low drone of his background processes. It took a few minutes, but eventually a flicker of _something_ appeared in the back of his mind.

“Got something?”

Simon could hear the smile in Markus's voice. He nodded carefully, as if the slightest of movements might dislodge the idea from his head.

“Okay, good. Now—focus on that feeling, take the brush, and let your hand just...drift across the canvas.”

Simon pressed his lips together in concentration, trying to remember where the colors were supposed to be on the palette. How did Markus ever keep anything straight? He daubed the brush against it, hoping that he'd picked up _something_ , at least, and pressed the bristles to the canvas.

He swept the fine hairs across the taught material with no particular method, growing more uncertain and anxious by the second. This didn't feel right. He wasn't programmed for this. He could barely maintain the spark of the idea itself—to translate it into visual medium was beyond his processing capabilities.

After a few minutes, he stepped back from the easel and opened his eyes.

“...Oh.” The canvas was taken up by an amorphous grey blob, the colors muddied and mushed together with no rhyme or reason. It certainly didn't resemble the image in Simon's head. It was barely recognizable as a shape at all.

He turned and looked at Markus with a raised eyebrow. “See, I told you.”

“No, it's—it's not bad for a first attempt?” Markus scrambled to wipe the grimace off his face.

“Markus,” Simon said reproachfully, thrusting the palette back at him. “It's awful.”

Markus snorted, taking it and setting it aside. “Alright, fine,” he said, wrapping his arm around Simon. “It's pretty bad. That's okay, though. You tried something new for me. Thanks for giving it a chance.” He pressed a gentle kiss to Simon's temple, in the spot where his LED used to be. Simon smiled wanly.

Markus examined the blob with an interested expression. “Hmm. What, uh. What _were_ you trying to paint, if you don't mind me asking?”

Simon attempted to recall the image, trying and failing to put it into words. Markus could see him struggling with it.

“Wait—I have an idea. Stay here.”

Simon stood in front of the canvas as Markus clattered around the studio, returning with a clean canvas and brushes. He dragged two stools over in front of the easel, maneuvering Simon so that he was sitting on the left one. Markus sat on the right, balancing the palette on his lap.

“Here,” Markus said, holding out his left hand. “Trust me,” he said when Simon hesitated.

“Of course I trust you.”

Simon interlaced his fingers with Markus's, synthetic skin retreating as they opened up to each other. A familiar flood of information: Markus's thoughts, some scattered memories, his warm, comforting presence in Simon's mind.

_Close your eyes._

Simon did as commanded, anchored in the darkness by his connection to Markus.

_Good. Now imagine what you were trying to paint for me. Let me see._

The idea was still there, but faintly. Simon focused on it with every fiber of his being, struggling to give it form. It took almost all his energy, but he was able to maintain it.

Mute approval from Markus's end. Simon could hear the sound of the brush sweeping across the canvas. Markus hummed softly as he worked. ‘Hold on, just a little while longer…’

“You can look now, Simon.”

Simon opened his eyes, still holding tight to Markus's hand. He inhaled softly in wonder, taking in the painting that Markus had done.

It was beautiful—pulled directly from his mind and then made even better by Markus's own creative flair. At the center was a silhouette, cast in shadow by a dozen glowing hands reaching out toward it like a beacon in the darkness. A network of thin blue signals webbed between them, linking them together as they moved with one intention.

Simon was spellbound. “Amazing,” he said quietly, carefully trying to dissect the way the rough, seemingly random brushstrokes came together to create such a clear image. 

“Yeah,” Markus said with a smile on his lips. “You are.” Simon looked away abashedly, his face flushing hot. Markus set the palette to the side, wiping the smears of acrylic from his hands with a stained rag. He stood, taking a few steps back to examine the painting from a distance. “What were you thinking about?”

“Jericho,” Simon said softly, the word falling of his lips like the echo of a distant memory. Flickers of the bittersweet past, images of those they’d lost. Of the home they’d once shared. Though the physical location was long gone, their ideals lived on in the hearts and minds of their family--all those who had survived, all those who had yet to come. They were interconnected, just like the hands in the painting. 

Markus came up behind him and pressed a kiss to the top of Simon’s head, pride evident in the way his hands smoothed over Simon’s shoulders. “You captured it perfectly.”


End file.
